


Sock Game Strong

by Maccabits



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Making an Effort (Good Omens), Sartorial erotica, Sock game, Yearning Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maccabits/pseuds/Maccabits
Summary: Crowley is proud of a new temptation he created, for which Aziraphale is a guinea pig. Then tables are turned.





	Sock Game Strong

Silk, black and steadfastly clinging up to his knees, the Gammarellis were a diaphanous shroud encircling calves just a touch too elongated to be human-proportioned. The fabric was so transparent that he could see beneath the hosiery dark hairs matted against his freckled skin. The socks left only the faintest of pink rings where the clever silk ended just at the joining of his tibia and his femur. Satan, they were perfectly designed. Admiring his legs in the mirror, Crowley reflected that perhaps it was the most subtle of his temptations directed at the clergy class. Why put all the work into getting priests to notice bare shoulders in the sunshine, when he could design something they would put on themselves that would remind them of the pleasures of the flesh all day, every day? They were truly the demonic answer to the hair-shirt.

Crowley had met the first Gammarelli in 1797 at a pub. Rome had long been a backwater, bowed but not crushed by a thousand years of barbarians and Italianate skirmishes; but the water flowing into the fountains from the aqueducts was still sweet, and traces of marble capitals could still be seen in the fora. It was the Vatican complex on the Janiculum Hill that was really humming with human life (and vice), and where Crowley did some of his best tempting. For this, Gammarelli had proven invaluable. The poor tailor had been willing to strike a deal - his eternal soul for the promise of the Gammarelli clan being appointed official tailor to the Pope. Gammarelli was a genius with thread and needle, and would have likely gained papal favor anyway, so Crowley thought it a bargain - especially when Gammarelli had proven willing to hear Crowley out on certain refinements of tradition, including a full hosiery redesign for priests, cardinals and bishops. The result was a silken sock that was sin embodied, an accessory that was delicious to put on (and take off) and as pleasing to the beholder as to the wearer. There had been untold thousands of tempted wearers and beholders in the ensuing centuries, and Crowley was as good as his word; every new pope entrusted a Gammarelli son to see to his vestments. Well, with the exception of Pope Pius XII, pope during WWII and uneasy ally of Mussolini. That bastard hadn’t deserved for his feet to feel so… well, heavenly.

Of course the idiots that populated Hell weren’t impressed. His most brilliant work always seemed to go over their heads; they didn’t understand humans well enough to know that there were five senses, each one being susceptible to certain temptations. Since the most common textures within Hell were jagged, clammy and/or lumpy, most demons didn’t have the expertise to appreciate what a soft, insistent rubbing could awaken.

Oh, but Crowley did. And silk was the most earthly texture of them all, one that he used to great effect. It had taken some experimentation though. Good thing Aziraphale had been such a willing model.

It hadn’t taken THAT much convincing, actually. After a little celestial spying as to the angel's whereabouts, he made it a point to bump into him at the open air market, just as Aziraphale was bargaining for some especially plump-looking dates. He led with a casual, “Oi! Aziraphale. Fancy seeing you here. Say, I was just thinking of you - I was having a drink with this fellow Gammarelli earlier. He’s working on the new Pope’s vestments, and he could really use some angelic inspiration.”

Crowley knew very well that Aziraphale was in town trying to clean up the damage from Napoleon’s imprisonment of Pope Pius VI, and was heaven-bound to do what he could to help Pius VII.

“What sort of inspiration, Crowley?” the angel asked, doubtfully. The Popes had long looked divine; he was not sure that even Gabriel could improve on the couture of the Papal Court. "How could I possibly help with vestments?"

“Well, Angel, as they say, ‘The Devil’s in the details.'” Crowley smiled wickedly and shifted his weight to survey Aziraphale. “He is working on some new developments in hosiery just now and mentioned he could use a model who would be most discreet as to what he is working on for His Holiness. You and the Pope both have a well-turned ankle, so I thought of you.” He gave his widest smile, and widened his yellow eyes behind the oval, darkened lenses.

Aziraphale blushed as he considered this, trying to find Crowley’s angle. “You want me to model hosiery for him? As part of The Arrangement?"he asked in a hushed voice.

Crowley lowered the intensity of his look, and immediately grew casual. “I don’t really care either way, angel. Gammarelli is my tailor; I was just trying to get him to hurry up so he can get to my order. If you could help me with that AND score one for your side, we both win.”

Aziraphale huffed. “You go to the Pontifical College campus? To get your tailoring done? That’s absurd!”  
Crowley just grinned and shrugged. The angel was silent for a moment, and then said resignedly, “Well, you wily serpent, I can’t see how a little assistance to a tailor could do any harm. In other words, I don’t see any victory for your side. Tell Mr. Gammarelli I shall be there tomorrow afternoon.”

Crowley smiled again, and tipped his hat.

The next day Aziraphale was punctual, wearing rich breeches in a cream velvet, matching hose, and calfskin boots. He was surprised to spy Crowley, pretending to examine waistcoats.  
“Don’t worry, Angel. My fitting appointment is next. I just thought I’d see how you got on with Gammarelli, make sure you’re comfortable.”  
“Well, that’s very kind of you, dear fellow!” Aziraphale beamed and bowed slightly to Gammarelli as he ascended a richly upholstered carved wooden chair, complete with matching ottoman. Gammarelli carefully unlaced Aziraphale’s immaculate calfskin boots, setting them to one side for an assistant to clean and tend to. He then pulled reached up below the leg band of Aziraphale’s breeches, and gently pulled his hosiery down.

Aziraphale, a little embarrassed to have even a few inches of ankle showing, glanced quickly at Crowley, then away.

Crowley suffered the inconvenience of the watcher who cannot be seen to be watching. He told his body that the message to be conveyed was of utter nonchalance, and counted on the smoked glass lenses to cover his tell - his eyes had gone completely snakelike.  
“You should spend some more time in the sun, Angel. Perhaps take a holiday in Naples?” he jeered, gesturing to Aziraphale's creamy ankle.

Aziraphale responded tartly, “Crowley, not everyone enjoys being basted in hellish heat. I get plenty of… light.” He raised his eyebrows significantly. Crowley pulled a face.

Suspicion averted, Crowley watched as Gammarelli, a master craftsman, began to pull the hose over Aziraphale’s immaculately pedicured toes. A pang of pleasure surged over Aziraphale’s face over the course of an instant, Crowley was quick to note. But by the time Gammarelli pulled the second sock over his other foot, Aziraphale was composed once again.

So perfect were these socks that Crowley felt, well, sinful, when he told Gammarelli later in the workshop; “They need to be finer, softer. Do it again.”

Arriving early at the next fitting, Crowley examined the tailor's latest handiwork. Gammarelli had outdone himself. The socks were like webs, or the very embodiment of gossamer; the fairies of Titania herself might have woven them. Aziraphale would look Divine in them.

“You again!” Aziraphale said, curious, as he entered the shop. “Are you always at the tailor's? How many fine suits do you need?”

“You’d be surprised, what with all the tempting I get up to these days, Angel,” Crowley said easily. “Besides, you’re one for talking. Got a pair of velvet breeches for every day of the week, do you?“ Aziraphale all but rolled his eyes. Angel and demon watched Gammarelli slowly stretch the fabric over the angel's feet.

Aziraphale was completely silent. This was uncharacteristic, and thus a good sign, Crowley decided.

“It’s not quite right,” Gammarelli decided, slightly stretching the stocking in hands. “Would you come for one more fitting, Mr. Fell?” Crowley was glad he was sure to coach the man ahead of time, though he suspected Gammarelli would struggle to top this latest iteration.

Crowley pulled his gaze from Aziraphale’s perfect feet and their translucent trappings, making a mental note to remember this sight for evermore.

Aziraphale nodded gracefully, shot Crowley a look, and was off.

Crowley had been at Gammarelli’s early, getting the setting just right. There was an Umbrian Merlot chilling at a side table. A satin, cream-colored cushion was placed on the scarlet upholstered ottoman, perfectly color-matched to the stocking which would soon be gently tugged onto Aziraphale’s shapely feet. Crowley hoped Aziraphale would linger a bit. Gammarelli had been carefully coached on exactly what he needed to do. Crowley had arranged for dinner with the angel after this appointment, and had agreed to meet him here.

When Aziraphale arrived, Crowley was already at the far end of the workshop, admiring a waistcoat. Aziraphale nodded at him and took his seat at the carved chair, allowing Gammarelli to carefully remove his boots and stockings before placing both feet on the satin pillow. Crowley wanted to watch - he so wanted to watch - but he kept his back firmly to the angel. Gammarelli had presented Aziraphale with the latest prototypes, when a shop apprentice appeared, speaking urgently in a low voice. Gammarelli looked apologetically at Aziraphale. “Just a moment, sir.” He left quickly, and after a few carefully calculated moments, Crowley slowly turned round and addressed Aziraphale. “Angel, do you want me to put those on for you?”

“No Crowley, of course not!” Aziraphale exclaimed, a little too quickly. “Fine!” Crowley retorted, “It’s good to know the official Heavenly response to small kindnesses!” He poured himself and the angel a glass of Merlot.

Aziraphale looked at him fixedly as he accepted the wine. “Thank you, dear fellow." Another moment passed, then another. "All right,” he said, finally. “It doesn’t seem like Gammarelli’s coming back soon, and my feet are getting cold."

Crowley was at his side in an instant, crouched directly in front of the soles of Aziraphale’s feet. They were spotless, soft and, well, so very Aziraphale. Crowley carefully found the toe seam of the left hose, and placed his thumbs on it, bunching the other fabric between fingers and thumb. Aziraphale cooperatively hiked up his breeches nearly to the knee. Crowley moved very carefully and very nonchalantly; at least he hoped that was how the angel was interpreting it. His knuckles brushed Aziraphale’s heels as he pulled the fabric forward, slowly, over the length of the foot, and Aziraphale jumped a bit at the contact. The fabric felt so good, so soft against his palms; Aziraphale's skin was equally soft - and warm. The sock was a bit snug, and had to be pulled and pressed carefully. Aziraphale shifted as Crowley grabbed hold of his ankle and began massaging the fabric slowly up his ankle. The angel’s calves were like upholstered steel, Crowley marveled; in 6000-odd years he had never before touched more than the angel's hand or shoulder in passing. Somewhere between lingering and carefulness, he slowly pulled the sheer material up Aziraphale’s lower leg, pressing gently with his four fingers as he pulled the snug sock up his foot. He had to consciously resist the urge to kiss the dimple on Aziraphale's knee placed just where the stocking left off. In fact, Crowley was unsure he could continue this performance a second time without doing so. As he looked up at Aziraphale he saw a curious expression on the angel’s face - nix that, a mix of many curious expressions. Had he discovered he was being tempted by his old friend? Crowley opened his mouth to speak, and Gammarelli appeared. Their gaze was broken, and Aziraphale began to compliment the man on his work.  
“They’re perfect,” he said, a smile overtaking his innocent face.  
“They’re perfect,” Crowley agreed glumly.

That Christmas, Crowley was surprised to find a package left at his doorstep. Quite surprised, in fact, as demons are not accustomed to receive gifts in honor of the Savior’s death. He opened it to find a dozen pairs of impossibly long, black silken stockings, with Gammarelli’s name nearly invisibly woven into the fabric.

“Allow me to tempt you,” Aziraphale had written in impossibly twirly calligraphy, “with your own invention.” Crowley groaned the deep groan of the conquered. He'd been wearing the socks exclusively ever since.

Centuries later, when, as Agnes Nutter put it, "they chose their faces carefully," Aziraphale had worn those socks again, in a bathtub in Hell itself. And he had been careful to keep them completely dry - somehow. Crowley, wearing Aziraphale's form, couldn't help but notice that he too was wearing Gammarelli's - a tartan pattern he had never seen on the tailor's shelves. Aziraphale must have made a custom order - perhaps the temptation _was_ mutual, after all. A demon could hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Gammarelli's are very real, and come in black (for priests), red (for cardinals), purple (for bishops) and by special request white (made for His Holiness Himself) and I'm pretty sure they were invented by a lovely, creative demon for a lovely, clueless angel.


End file.
